


Guilt

by TheIceQueen



Series: Sam's blue book [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Dean Winchester, Angst, Awesome Sam Winchester, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Crying, Dean is Not Amused, Desperate Sam Winchester, Desperation, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, Hugs, Men Crying, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Nightmares, Panic, Post-Hell, Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Talking, Worried Bobby Singer, Worried Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 12:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14737226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIceQueen/pseuds/TheIceQueen
Summary: Dean has confessed to Sam that he liked torturing souls in hell. Sam kept seeing his brother getting worse and in desperation he calls an old acquaintance to find help.Dean doesn't take kindly to the idea of a shrink. Needless to say, there will be yelling.





	Guilt

When Dean told Sam about hell, Sam was relieved, absolutely horrified to the extent that he wanted to throw up, but relieved nonetheless. He thought that could be a step in the right direction. Since his brother had come back from hell he’d had nightmares almost every night, and eve though he tried to hide it, Sam had noticed him recoil from screams and get visibly sick near blood.

It hadn’t gotten better though, possibly even worse, and when Dean told him that he’d _liked_ torturing souls, Sam knew something had to be done. If only he had any idea as to what.

He was looking through his blue book of names. Why didn’t he have the name of some witch or angel who could be trusted? Someone powerful enough to wipe Dean’s memory of hell.

He ended up calling Bobby and after being yelled at for ten minutes straight, for even suggesting angels, Sam made the mistake of mentioning a psychiatrist. Bobby had laughed at first and then asked him where they were supposed to tie Dean up during that hour.

The conversation died of and Sam sat quietly on the bed with his hand supporting his head.

“Sam? Just, how desperate are you?”

Sam shook his head and bit the inside of his cheek. “Well you heard my suggestions. He’s bad Bobby. Last night I couldn’t wake him from his nightmare. I had to watch him scream for over an hour.”

Silence spread, and Sam noticed that special way Bobby breathed through his nose when his jaw was locked tight from thinking hard.

“What Bobby?”

“I’ve heard of someone. Maybe you should try calling Emmy.”

* * *

“You did _WHAT?!_ ”

He must have heard Sam wrong. No way he was that ignorant.

“Dean you need help.” Sam talked calmly and didn’t even look surprised that Dean was shouting. He must have expected that reaction. “Your nightmares…”

“I was in hell, in _HELL_ Sam! I would think nightmares would be expected.”

“They’re getting worse, and you almost puked in that vampire’s nest.”

“And you didn’t? There was blood and…” Dean swallowed. He was _not_ going to gag now. “…guts everywhere.”

“Dean please. He knows hunting. Just talk to him.”

Dean was way to angry to let Sam’s puppy-dog-eyes get to him. “And what?! Tell him that I was tortured for thirty years? Maybe cry a little? And then what? Confess that I liked torturing souls? Is that going to make me _feel_ better?”

Sam looked out the window.

“He’s already on his way, isn’t he?”

Sam had wanted to study some of Bobby’s lore-books to check up on a lead about Lilith. Dean realized now that it had only been an excuse to use the house. He should have suspected something when Bobby took off as soon as they arrived.

Sam nodded and looked at his feet. “He’ll be here any minute.”

“Great. See you in two hours. I’m sure you two are done by then.” Dean picked up his jacket and headed for the door.

Sam stepped in his way. “Dean…”

“Get out of my way Sam. You’re bat-shit-crazy if you think that I’ll play shrink with some dude who _knows_ hunting. You should probably talk to him, he might knock some sense into you.”

Sam put a hand on Dean shoulder and Dean fought the urge to knock him flat on his ass.

“Please. Emmy said…”

“Emmy?” He remembered that name. Oh yeah, that lady who patched Sam up years ago and had earned the first spot in his blue book of names. “Wasn’t she the one who stitched up your ass after you got shot?”

Dean watched Sam take a deep breath and clearly counting to ten in his head, he wasn’t quite sure he got all the way there though.

“He’s her brother.”

Dean remembered Emmy for being a strict woman, who hopefully had shown Sam better bedside manner than he and Bobby got. “Great a grumpy shrink.”

An old pick-up truck pulled up in front of the house. Dean dropped his jacket, no point in running now, he’d had to take the fight in here.

“Just give him a chance.”

God! Sam really _was_ stupid.

Sam opened the door and let the middle-aged man inside. Dean had retracted to the other corner, secretly hoping for Sam to understand that this would only be him yelling until the man left.

“Hi, I’m Mark. So, you’re Sam? You talked to my sister?”

“Yeah, thanks for coming. Ehm…”

Dean had his back turned but could feel two sets of eyes lingering on his back.

“Then that makes that one over there, Dean. Okay, leave us.”

Dean heard Sam taking in a breath to answer but didn’t get the chance.

“Leave before he tries something. I’m sure he wants to stab you in the neck more than he would me right now. We’ll let you know when we’re done.”

If Dean hadn’t been fuming with rage, he might have smiled at that one. This guy really was Emmy’s brother. The door closed, and Dean heard the impala drive away. _Freaking amazing._ Now he had to walk to town to get drunk after he kicked this man out.

“So, being a hunter…” Dean heard the man sit down by the table in the kitchen. “…how do you plan on getting rid of me? Knock me out? Tie me up and take my car, or just shooting me point-blank?”

Every one of those options, and about five more, had crossed Dean’s mind in the last minute. Dean turned around. “Listen. I don’t know what my brother is on, but he knows better than this. I’m leaving.”

“So, why is your brother scared?”

Dean stopped with his hand on the door handle. He chuckled to himself and looked over his shoulder, at the white-bearded man. “My brother is not scared. He just worries too damn much, it’s kinda his thing.”

“Mmhm.” The guy nodded and looked at the table. I’ve been doing this for a long time, and that guy just leaving, was _scared_ , and not because you were shouting so I could hear it over my truck’s engine noise down the road. Why do you think that is?”

Dean let go of the handle. Still looking at the door, he thought the last few weeks over. Sam must have witnessed every nightmare and if he’d seen the reaction he had in the vampire’s nest he’d probably see all the other little things too.

“Sam had always had problems with accepting things as they are. He wants to _fix_ everything.” His brother really _was_ annoying, but this time took the price.

“Is there something to be fixed?”

Dean hammered his fist on the door. “Nothing that _can_ be.” He turned around and it irritated him that the shrink hadn’t even moved an inch. Dean took a few steps closer to the man. “I was in freakin _HELL!_ Sam seem to think that I’m loosing it because of a few nightmares. I can still do my job, I’m not going to freak out! I think I’m doing pretty damn well!”

Dean had expected the shrink to say something shrink-like and he was already taking in air for round two of yelling, but the man just calmly stood up and went for the fridge. Dean calmed himself for a brief moment.

“What do you think you are you doing?”

“I’ll pay for it.” He leaned his rear to the counter and opened the beer he’d just taken. “No one told me about hell, that sort of thing needs washing down.”

What was this guy? He looked like Santa dressed up like a cowboy, only thing missing was the hat, and now he was drinking Bobby’s beer. Dean was flabbergasted and stood still not sure of what to do.

“Want one?”

Dean shook his head. “What exactly did Sam tell you?”

The man took another sip. “Nothing, he talked to Emmy, she only said that I should get my ass up here as fast as my wheels would take me. I know that shrinks is the absolute last resort for hunters, after drinking and, you know, killing stuff. However, the sheer disbelief that Sam had called her and asked for help of this sorts, had her panicked.”

Dean took a beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter. He just stared at the beer in his hands. Why hadn’t Sam told them about the nightmares, about hell or anything? Sam had been desperate enough to call a doctor he never wanted to think about again, let alone talk to, and get a stranger out here, knowing that it probably wouldn’t result in him getting his ass handed to him. But still he’d kept quiet about why he’d called.

“What’s bothering you about that?”

Dean wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure why he was listening to this man and not in town drinking his mind out, right now, but something had him locked. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d scared Sam. “It’s not like Sam.”

The man looked at him, clearly waiting for him to continue.

“You have to understand. Sam is a hippie. A too-smart-for-his-own-good-hippie. He believe that things will be fixed by talking about it.”

“To me it sounds like he acted in character then.”

Dean opened his beer and took a sip. He could talk to this guy about Sam, he needed to figure out how to at least fake that he was better, so Sam didn’t have to be scared for him. If he would get of his back that would be great too.

“No. For Sam knows I wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t call, and if he had a stroke, which he clearly did, and called anyway, he would tell everything, because he knew I wouldn’t.”

The man nodded and sat the half empty beer on the counter next to him. “But here you are, talking to me. Why is that?”

Dean was too confused by it all to get angry, he had no idea what kind of magic this man was doing, but he didn’t seem like a shrink. Maybe it was the pickup truck, or the fact that he was almost the size of Sam or that he was standing in Bobby’s kitchen drinking.

“I have no freakin idea.” Dean emptied his beer and for a moment contemplating grabbing another.

“I think you should give your brother more credit than you do.” Dean looked at the man, he was stepping into a minefield. No one tells the Winchesters how to deal with each other. Except maybe Bobby. “Sam is scared, and yes maybe he worries a tad too much sometimes, but the fact is that he is desperate for you to do something about this, and still he didn’t out you to anyone. He respects you too much for that.”

“So…” Dean couldn’t believe he was doing this. “…what do I do? Lay on the couch, tell you my life story and cry?”

The large man smiled “Nobody got time for a whole life story, why don’t you sit if you want to, and then start by telling me why your brother is freaking out?”

Dean grabbed another beer. “I guess it’s the nightmares. Some mornings he looked like he’s slept worse than me.” Dean walked to the other side of the room and looked at some random object Bobby had lying on a shelf. “Then there’s the sounds and the smells…”

Dean stopped himself. He wasn’t going to make this man think that he was sorry for himself, he wasn’t. He deserved the flashbacks and even the nightmares. How could he feel bad about what happened to him, knowing what he did?

“Are you not going to tell me about that?”

Dean turned. Mark was still at the counter, haven’t even moved a muscle.

“No. I…”

“Okay. U-turn. Tell me about hell then.”

Dean was ready to leave, but not before he’d told that maniac what he thought about this talking thing. “I’m _not_ going to tell you about hell! I was there for forty years! Talking about it, won’t make it any better. The things Sam is seeing is _my_ cross to bear, no one else can help with that.”

The large man stood up free from the counter and took a few steps. Dean was so surprised to see him move towards him that he just stood there. The man looked at Dean’s face for a good five seconds then took a step back.

“Sit!”

Dean looked at the chair, Mark had pulled out for him. Confused by the commanding tone he obeyed and sat down slowly.

“So, where do Bobby keep the hard stuff?” The bearded man looked over the room and went to the cupboard Dean instinctively looked at. He came back and sat down with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

“Forty years huh?”

He poured an excessive amount in both glasses and took a fairly large sip of his. Dean was frozen shocked, just looking at the man.

“Dean. Drink. I guess you’re no stranger to whiskey.”

Dean picked up the glass and took a large swallow of the smoke-tasting liquid. The man across the table put his glass down and looked questioning at Dean. “You said; _That’s my cross to bear…_ Why do you think you deserve this?”

Dean was fuming inside, mostly because he felt his eyes burning and he was fighting not to spill. Something in this man’s eyes made him stay put though, or maybe it was the alcohol waiting in the bottle. He took a deep breath and another swallow of the whiskey. He might as well tell, but it was getting harder to convince himself that he did this to ease Sam’s mind.

“I was there for forty years. Time is different there I guess. I’m not telling you about what they did but imagine the worst and you’re not even close.” Dean emptied his glass and poured himself a new one. “Every day a demon would offer me to end it, if I would torture others.”

Dean looked at the table and the glass between his hands. He shook his head and swallowed.

“And you made the deal?”

Dean clenched his teeth and nodded. He took a sip of his whiskey and looked the older man straight in the eyes. “After thirty years.”

Mark rested his elbows on the table and kept staring in Dean’s glazed eyes. “So now you think you deserve what you’ve got. That this is your punishment?”

Dean stood up, a bit too fast from the speed he’d been downing that alcohol and grabbed the back rest of the chair. “No. If this was a punishment it would be worse. This is nothing. I liked it. I _liked_ torturing those souls. Tell me, how am I ever going to pay for that?!”

He paced the floor for a while before Mark spoke again.

“Tell me Dean. Have you ever heard of Stockholm syndrome?”

Dean spun to look at the man, almost flinging the golden drink form his class. “I don’t have Stockholm syndrome. It’s not like I defend the son of a bitch who tortured me.”

Mark stood up, leaving his glass on the table. “You don’t anymore, but you did when you were there. Stockholm syndrome is when you are forced to make yourself feel okay with, or even good about horrible decisions to survive or get out of an unmanageable situation.”

Dean walked away from the man and put his glass on a lamp table and leaned on it with both arms. “ _I_ made that decision. _I_ did. No one else.”

Mark walked easily over to Dean and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. Dean was too exhausted to fight it off. “It’s easier for us to feel bad about the choices we make than the things that are done to us. This was done to you. You were forced to do this. If your brain hadn’t’ made you _like it,_ you wouldn’t be a whole man now. You would have crumbled. I know you hate to hear it, everyone does, even people who aren’t hunters, but you _are_ the victim. You are not to blame.”

Dean shook his head but followed when the larger guy took his elbow and moved him over the floor to sit in Bobby’s leather recliner. Mark sat down in the couch across from him.

“The smells, the sounds and the nightmares are still torturing you from what they did to you. The guilt is the torture that is lasting from what they made you do.”

Dean was looking firmly at his hands. He didn’t know what to do with them. He wanted to run out the door, but he couldn’t. He had to know what this man was going to say next. He hated being treated as a victim, but there was no pity in the doctor’s voice.

The man must have noticed Dean’s hands and went to get his glass from the lamp table. “Here, drink.” He fetched the bottle from the kitchen and poured Dean a third glass.

“How drunk are you?”

After two fairly large glasses of whiskey and a beer, Dean was buzzing but not really drunk. He’d build quite the tolerance the last few months. “I’m not drunk. Not even sure I’ll feel this tomorrow.”

“Good. Now listen up, I’m going to share some wisdom with you.” The man sat on the coffee table and Dean wondered for a moment if it would crumble under the weight. He put a hand on Dean’s shoulder and looked at his eyes.

Had this guy tried to make him drunk so he was unable to fight his way out? The man didn’t talk before Dean looked up. When he did he was almost shouting.

“You are intitled to feel crappy, you are allowed to feel sorry for yourself, you’re human for God’s sake! You have to make piece with what was done to you, otherwise the guilt _will_ take over.”

Dean looked in the man’s eyes and eventually realized that he expected a reaction from him. He nodded and looked down. Mark let go and sat upright at the table again.

“Do you understand me?”

Dean looked at the drink in his hands. “I guess. I’m not sure.”

“Okay. Without all the explaining then… When you accept that it’s okay for you to feel what ever you’re feeling, then there will be room for the guilt to go away and all the other things will go away too.”

Dean downed the entire glass and looked up at the doctor. “So I need to sit down and cry about it?” That was not going to happen. He’d already cried in front of Sam, and that was enough.

“Not necessarily, you just have to accept it.” Mark emptied the last of his drink and got up to grab his coat.

Dean looked at the large man. Strangely, he felt weird about him leaving.

“How long?”

The man turned as he swung the jacket over his back. “No one knows. It depends on you. But don’t be alarmed if it gets worse. When you start accepting it, it will get worse before it gets better.”

Dean shook his head to himself. There it was. The shrink-stuff, covering his ass if none of this worked. It’s okay if it gets worse, yeah right.

Mark put the flask on the coffee table on top of his card. Drink this and think. You can call me, but I won’t be offended if you don’t.

Dean nodded and moved to the couch, so he could reach the bottle.

“Just don’t get so drunk you won’t remember anything tomorrow, it’s a long ass drive up here, and I don’t want to do it again.”

The door slammed, and Dean couldn’t help but smile as to how similar him and his sister was. He looked at the bottle. Not even a quarter full, even with the three glasses he’d already had he would remember everything tomorrow.

* * *

Sam was waiting at the local diner to meet Mark. He’d called and told him that he’d left Dean five minutes ago. It was a good thing that almost and hour had passed, but Sam was still expecting to see a significant shiner on the man’s face.

Mark walked in and Sam stood up quickly.

“Sit.” Mark nodded at the booth and sat down himself.

“So… Is he…? How? What happened?”

“Calm down. I’m confident that your brother will be fine, if he’s willing to work on it.”

Sam looked down. He wringed his hands on top of the table. The doctor could just as well have told him that Dean was ready for the mental ward.

“Hey, Sam.” Sam looked up at the man. Did he smell whiskey on his breath? “Give him time, I think he’ll come around. He might get worse at first, but it’s normal.”

Sam nodded and tried to smile. “What do I do?”

“Just be there if he need it. Don’t force it…” The man got up. “…and wait an hour before returning. He’s probably quite drunk now. Let him sleep it off.”

Sam frowned but the man was gone before he could ask any more questions.

He met with Bobby outside the house almost two hours later and went in to find Dean sleeping on the couch with the empty bottle in his arms. There was money on the table with a note that said; For the drinks.

* * *

A little over a week passed where Dean didn’t talk much. Bobby had found a thin lead, but a lead nonetheless, on a case and had been away most of the time. Dean had been working on the Impala and had told Sam that they couldn’t go on a case before it was done. Sam couldn’t quite figure out what was wrong with it, but let Dean take his time.

Sam woke up to the smell of Bobby’s cooking. He knew it was bobby who was back, because Dean knew how to make breakfast without burning the bread.

“Morning.” Sam rubbed his eyes while walking into the kitchen. “When did you get back?”

“A few hours ago. _Not_ before the storm hit. I was soaked walking from the car to the door. I’m impressed you didn’t wake up when I showered down the hall.”

Sam looked around the room. “Have you seen Dean?”

Bobby nodded at the door. “He took off.”

Sam wasn’t sure he got the message right. “What? In _this_? It’s raining cats and dogs out there.”

“Tell me about it.” Bobby tired to knock water out of his ear.

Sam looked outside. The Impala was still in the yard. “Did he say anything?”

“No he just took off. He didn’t even grab his jacket.”

Sam got his jacket and Dean’s too and opened the door. “Dean!” He turned back to Bobby. “When?”

“About twenty minutes, I thought he took the car… there was a lot of thunder.

Sam ran out and stood in the middle of the yard. “Dean!” No answer. He looked in the car, but it was empty, Bobby’s truck too.

“Dean!”

Sam was getting soaked trough his jacket. He ran to the other side of the house.

“Dean! Where are you…! Dean! Answer me!”

“Sam.”

It was a small voice. Sam wasn’t sure it was even his brother, but who else would be here?

“Dean?!”

“I’m here.”

Sam turned around and saw his big brother sitting crumbled up, knees to his chest, behind a pile of busted tires.

“Dean…? What?”

Sam instinctively put Dean’s jacked over his brother and Dean recoiled.

“Hey. It’s me. Why are you here?”

Dean rested his forehead on his knees and pulled the jacket closer around him. “The smell… it was burning. I had to get out.”

Sam sat down next to Dean and put an arm around his back. “Okay. We’ll sit here then. I wasn’t hungry for Bobby’s burnt toast anyway.”

They sat there for a few seconds before Sam’s phone rang.

“We’re good Bobby. I found him. We’ll come in…” Sam felt Dean press his body closer to his side. “…eventually. Do me a favor and air out the house.”

Sam hung up and wrapped his other arm around Dean.

“Sam…”

“You don’t have to, Dean. It’s okay to just sit here.”

Dean nodded and rested his head on the younger Winchester’s shoulder.

They stayed like that even after both of them were completely soaked. When Dean started shivering, Sam hugged him a little tighter.

“Sam?”

“Dean you’re freezing.”

“I need to stay for a little longer. You go.”

Sam shook his head, hoping Dean could feel the movement. “I’m staying right here. We’ll stay till you’re ready.”

“It’s bad Sammy.”

“Dean I know, but Mark said this is part of it.”

“Screw that Christmas-cowboy!”

Sam chuckled. “I have no idea what that means, but I trust him.”

Dean got silent then he pushed himself from Sam and looked at him. “I do too. Sammy. I’m a mess, I can’t hunt right now.”

Sitting face to face, Sam took a good look at Dean. He was beyond wet, and water was dripping from his hair, but Sam knew what his brother’s eyes looked like when tears were building.

“We’ll wait till you’re ready. There’re no leads on Lilith, there are other hunters.”

Dean looked down and Sam pulled him into a hug. He felt his older bother shaking not only from the cold, but from the strained breathing of a person crying.

“Sam…” Dean was whispering barely loud enough to make it past the thunder and rain drumming on the tires.

“What is it Dean?”

“I… I need help… You have to help.”

“Anything, Dean. Anything.”

Dean pressed his forehead on Sam’s color bone. “There are things… smells, sounds… I need you to know.”

Sam rubbed big circles on Dean’s back, hoping to warm him just a little. He waited patiently for him to continue.

“The smell of iron… blood I guess. Screams, crying. The smell of something burning is the worst.”

Sam pushed Dean up to look at him, and Dean followed reluctantly. “Dean. I’ll help you in anyway I can. Trying to avoid it, and if that’s not possible, I’ll sit in the rain with you till we both get pneumonia.”

Sam smiled at his brother and was relieved that Dean managed to send a little smile back.

Dean uncurled his legs with a long-lasting moan and stood up. Sam stood up and hugged his brother again. “You sure you’re ready to go inside?”

“I’m sure.” Dean brushed a hand over his face to get the tears away, but it was redundant with the rain still falling heavily.

Walking behind his brother towards the porch, Sam nodded to himself. He hated seeing Dean like this. It made him physically ill to see his brother this hurt, but he knew this was a step in the right direction, and no matter how long it would take, Dean was on his way to getting better.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is quite different from the others in this series.  
> Let me know what you think please.


End file.
